


I Would Die for You

by Torched22



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sacrifice, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Life carried on ordinarily after the almost-pocalypse, that is, until Crowley heard his name screamed through the darkness.*Warning-hurt Aziraphale*





	1. Chapter 1

The night was typical of London. Fog rolled in on an invisible wind-driven tide and clouds gathered angrily overhead. They formed a blanket over the city that rumbled and groaned with the promise of torrential downpour. And even though Crowley wasn't a creature of 'light,' he wished that it would rain a bit less. 

He'd never admit it aloud but he had seasonal depression, it wasn't even something he spoke in his thoughts, just a feeling that lived in his chest like an unwelcome drunken friend. He wanted to break up with it, send him stumbling home, but whenever it rained for days on end and he saw no sign of sun, he would have to drive to a desolate spot, unfurl his velvet black wings and lift himself above the droll.

This cloud choked depression was only worsened by the recent turn of events. Had they staved off the end of the world? Yes. They should be elated and celebrating and spending time with one another. But he hadn't seen Aziraphale in three months. 

In the past, they'd gone centuries without speaking. He'd thought little of it and tried to remain focused on enjoying himself and, 'the mission' (deliberate air-quotes). Truth be told, he didn't like serving anyone. Truth be told, enjoying himself these days relied rather heavily upon Aziraphale, and that realization made his face twist in dismayed consternation. 

He hated how "weak" he was. Relying on someone else...well, that made you weak, he thought. He didn't want to need anyone, but he felt as though he needed Aziraphale. Even when the sun shone brilliantly in the last three months, he wasn't happy. Aziraphale had become his sun. 

Crowley felt like the dark side of the moon, permanently affixed away from the friendly Earth, but desperate to catch a glimpse of it - be in its presence. He wasn't even sure who was avoiding who at this point. They hadn't gotten in a fight. There was no remarkable moment in which they split apart. On the contrary...he had said something to Aziraphale. Something that hinted at his affections. 

The admission had slipped out, snaked past his lips and hung in the air between them. He'd said some stupid shit in the past, when he was drunk, but this time he was completely sober. That fact only made it more dangerous somehow. He couldn't excuse the remark with the comfortable shield of inebriation and he'd wished he could pull the words back as soon as they left his mouth, instead, he watched in horror as Aziraphale's expression shuttered itself off. His cheeks blushed a furious pink and he'd turned away and changed the subject. Crowley left the bookshop shortly after that and hadn't seen the angel since. 

Of course the angel wouldn't be amenable to such a declaration of affection, what had he been thinking? 

He hadn't. 

No angel could love a... shit... he couldn't even bring himself to say it. He felt disgusted with himself in a new and shameful way that filled him with fright. Caring so much about Aziraphale was bound to end in disaster. Either Zira would scorn his affections. Or...return them. And at some point, regardless of the angel's inclination, their friendship alone dictated their destruction.

A full body shudder coursed through Crowley as he recalled "losing" the angel. He had crawled around in the book shop, tears stinging his eyes as panic welled up to his throat. He had lost his best friend, thought that he'd never see him again, and it sent him into a wracking depression that involved heavy drinking. And that was BEFORE they'd saved the world. Now, they were only closer. 

"Fraternizing" they'd called it. 

He couldn't bear the thought of existing without Aziraphale and that self-hatred rose up again like a spike that pierced his heart. If the angel were to be properly destroyed by either heaven or hell, suicide would be in Crowley's cards. He'd lived a long 6,000 ish life. Not a bad run, right? 

Without the angel to pop into his life and demand scrumptiously elaborate dinners, he had resigned himself to sleeping and drinking. Bourbon was part of his nightly routine and he sat slumped on his sofa, the bottle in his hand as he stared off at nothing in particular. 

The building was quiet save for the soft whir of air conditioning circulating through the building. Amber liquid sloshed in the bottle as he nearly fell asleep over it. He relished the rich burn of it as it slipped down his throat and into his stomach as if it belonged there. 

"Crowley!" 

He shot up, dropping the bottle to the floor in a loud shatter of glass and liquid. His head whipped around, but saw no one. It was Aziraphale's voice. A scream.

He stood and flew out the front door. 

"Angel? Where are you?" 

"Help!" the familiar voice was wind-whipped and strangled, tainted with fear so strong that Crowley could taste it on his tongue. 

"WHERE ARE YOU ANGEL?" he screamed back into the ether. It was night, he didn't care who saw, he raced up to the building's roof and rocketed upwards. A sound, just a noise, filled his ears. It was a scream, wordless and wracked with terror, that was punctuated with a smacking thud. 

"AZIRAPHALE!" he cried, darting around the moonless sky, his eyes straining to see everything. 

A sob echoed in his ears and it made his stomach crawl up into his throat. He felt tears slide from his cheeks, his eyes scanning the ground beneath him.

"54th..." it was a whisper. "And Duncan."

He knew where that was. Hope sprung into his soul (if he had one) and he shot to the location as fast as his wings could carry him. 

The street was dark and deserted. It wasn't a popular area, and people knew better than to be out there at night. This worked in Crowley's favor as he didn't particularly give a shit who saw him flying towards his friend.

At first, Aziraphale's form was just a shapeless heap of color that stood out against the cobbled streets. His wings were extended, but draped along the ground and unadulterated panic flooded all of Crowley's senses. He landed poorly, severely out of practice when it came to flying, and rushed to his angel. There was red blood standing out starkly against his snow white wings. 

"Aziraphale," his voice shook as he rolled the other over. A deep sigh of relief escaped him as he noted Aziraphale's open eyes and moving chest. "Crowley...you came."

"Of course. Of course I would. What on earth happened? Can you move? Should you stand?" 

"Yes," the angel croaked out. There was a great gash on his forehead and blood flowed down from it in streams. Crowley hooked his hands under the angel's arms and helped him to his feet. "I was attacked." 

"I can see that...who the hell..." the final word caught like a latch in his throat. Hell. 

"It was a demon. He seemed quite bent on destroying me." 

The angel fell heavily against him, his breathing coming hard. Something was clearly very wrong with his right leg. 

"I did the best I could, nearly got killed. When I called out for you, his expression changed. I slashed at his face with...well...with my hands. I can sort of have these claws...anyway...I got his eye and he vanished in a torrent of smoke. Ung...I'm so glad you came..."

"Me too," a much darker voice cracked, each syllable rumbling heavy as thunder. In a second faster than the strike of lightning, both Crowley and Aziraphale turned to see a menacing figure with a scaled face. The figure was lithe but musclebound, wearing a nearly sheer black robe that billowed with each gust of wind. It had something shiny and moved it crack-whip fast. It was a sliver of shining blackness that darted towards Crowley. There was no time to react, no time to herald a miracle, no time to cry for help or summon back up. There was, however, just enough time for Aziraphale to register what was happening and throw himself protectively in front of Crowley.

What would have hit the demon straight in the heart, instead slid through Aziraphale's coat and shirt and undershirt and into his pale flesh. The sword burned with a supernatural heat that had him screaming in such agonized pain that the sound scared even himself. He choked and sobbed and was falling, falling, falling.

The figure, having missed its mark but with its cover blown, decided to try again another night and vanished in the same puff of smoke that Aziraphale was describing just moments ago.

Now, the angel was on the ground and Crowley was over him, screaming and crying. His hands were thick with blood and the smell of copper filled his nose with a burn. Aziraphale's pale left hand was up and covering the wound. The gaping slice hit under his collar bone, on his right. Luckily, with the sword gone, he no longer felt as though he might vomit and pass out. 

"It's okay, it's going to be okay, you'll be okay," Crowley tried to soothe, but he knew...he knew that if Aziraphale was discorporated, heaven would not be keen to give him another body. They might even use such wounds to kill him. "I'll miracle it away," Crowley drew his hand and snapped in an upward motion, but nothing happened. Blood continued gushing from the wound.

"'S not working!" he yelled. "You try, try to miracle it away with heaven's strength," he felt like praying in that moment and it scared him incredibly.

Aziraphale weakly lifted his shaking left hand and snapped from up to down, but nothing happened.

The angel was taking deep draws of breath now and he was beginning to shake more violently. "What the hell's happening?" Crowley asked no one in particular. He huddled over Aziraphale's body as rain began to fall and snapped again. This time, he was able to miracle them back to his flat, straight onto the living room floor. His brain floundered for what to do next. The events that just transpired played over and over in his mind. The shock of the voice, the soft white of Zira's wings in his hands as he fell backwards and onto him. Fury rose along with the fear vibrating in his heart. "Why...why would you do that?!" was all he could think to say. He shook, unsure of why because he wasn't hurt, but somehow, he was. "I didn't deserve it, to be saved," he cried. "I never ASKED you to SAVE ME!" he sobbed.

"I'd give my...my life for you, Crowley, you must know that," Aziraphale smiled, blood marring his mouth and staining his teeth. "Even if it meant eternal destruction, I would give myself for you. You are worthy." 

"No, no, no," Crowley fought, he sniveled, feeling as though this was some sort of final declaration. He pressed his hands heavily on the wound and watched the red claim the coat which had survived the past hundred years unharmed, save for that lone blue paintball. 

Aziraphale's eyes looked sleepy and he reached up his left hand to cup Crowley's face. "I was so scared of your love," he admitted in a voice that was barely sound enough to comprehend. A noise bubbled up the demon's throat. "But I'm not anymore. Not afraid of your love."

"You don't get to die. No, you don't, you bastard. If you die, I'll hate you forever," Crowley spat, unable to deal with the idea of losing Aziraphale, the lie tasting like sour blood on his own tongue. 

"Kiss me," Aziraphale asked in a near whisper. Blood pooled around his collarbone and dripped down his face to wet his neck along with his tears. The soft skin of his delicate neck pulsed and Crowley swore he could feel the life leaving Aziraphale. His heart hammered in his chest and every cell of his body was screaming in a sort of chaotic horror that he'd never truly felt until now. His best friend had just...he wanted...a kiss...

Just a kiss...

He bent over and brought his lips to the angel's. With much surprise, he felt Aziraphale's lips move against his, tongue slipping inside to taste, passion emanating from the act. 

Crowley was coiled power and heat and endless love. That's what he felt in Crowley's kiss - love - and for a long time, Aziraphale had wrestled with whether or not demons could even feel such an emotion. But Crowley felt it, he knew that now. That's how he would end this life, in his love's arms, a fresh kiss upon his lipstick bloodied lips. He never wanted the kiss to end. He internally chastised himself for letting it take until now to get to this point. Now, when it was too late. Crowley finally pulled up and Aziraphale smiled at him. 

"I lov..." 

His hand fell from Crowley's face leaving a trail of fingers and bloodied handprint.

Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Reality itself cracked for Crowley whose lips were still marked wine red with Aziraphale's blood. He could not, would not, let allow his friend to die. Only moments ago did he discover that Aziraphale loved him and he deserved the chance to explore that love. He had so much left to do with Aziraphale, they had spent 6,000 years on this blasted planet, wasted it really, save for the last five minutes.

His breathing was loud and ragged in the space of his flat and the walls pressed in on him. Now, his whole body shook and he couldn't cry or scream, just panic in silence as he raced through ways he could save the angel. There was one man his mind conjured up, someone he'd met recently, a doctor. 

Crowley had managed to make it 6,000 years without revealing to humans that he was a demon, but that spotless streak was about to come to a screeching halt. He couldn't very well walk Aziraphale into a hospital, so he would have to bring the doctor to him. 

He poured all of his furious panic into a honed laser, clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, and snapped his finger from down to up. 

A man, the man, the doctor, stood wobbling in his living room. 

"What...what the hell?" his head whipped around, confusion emanating from him in waves. Crowley was successful in more ways than one. Not only had he snapped the doctor into his flat, he also confiscated a whole boatload of medical supplies from the very hospital that housed Dr. Copland.

"I brought you here, supernaturally," Crowley stood and walked towards the man who was backing away from him.

The confusion on the pale face twisted into dismay and slight recognition. "I...I know you..."

"Yes, I'm Crowley, we met two years ago. But we REALLY don't have time for pleasantries. My friend is severely hurt," he turned, hand stretching towards the angel on the floor.

"W-wings...he has..."

"He's an angel. Literally. Again, no time," he reached out and grasped the middle aged man violently, dragging him towards the figure on the floor. "I will answer your questions later, really I will, but I need you to save him."

The stunned and most likely whip lashed doctor was drug to the floor, his knees hitting the hard wood with a sickening splash as he knelt in blood.

"FIX HIM!" the man he knew as Crowley screamed.

His expression was dumb, a mix of horror and fascination, his thoughts whipping their wings in wild and aimless directions. Crowley reached up and took his glasses off, flinging them to their fate against a wall. His eyes were a rich golden color with a cat-like pupil. Massive black wings tore out of his back and lifted upward. "FIX HIM OR I'LL DRAG YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL!" he screamed.

That seemed to do the trick. The man snapped back to reality and pulled some supplies towards him. He felt for the angel's breath and there was one, thank God. His breath was but a whisper, tenuous and thread, but there. 

He pulled out a scissors. 

"What the bloody hell is that for?" Crowley spat. 

"To get his clothes off."

The snake eyed man snapped...the air around him seemed to charge... and suddenly the angel was lying before him, nude. No longer needing the scissors, he tossed them aside and reached for more useful supplies. "Well, if you can do that, why don't you just make him better with your snap?"

"I can't," Crowley said lamely, the weight of those words far heavier than the chains he bore around his neck. "Sh...should I move him to the bed or...?" 

"No, the hard surface beneath him is good. I'll need to apply pressure to his wounds and letting him sink into a soft surface wouldn't help."

"Well...I..." the demon floundered, he had never felt quite this helpless, not since the apocalypse at least. "I want to assist you. What can I do?" 

"How much can you do with those snaps? Can you sterilize this room?" 

"Yes!" his face held a flicker of hope for the first time. He snapped. There was no noticeable difference, but he knew that it had worked. The doctor had gloves on and was listening to Aziraphale's heart. He moved quickly for the first time and began tending to the wounds. Blood gurgled from each injury and spikes of fear flooded back into Crowley. He had been on Earth a very long time and seen many humans take their last breaths. He had tasted war and tragedy and thought more than once that the shattered world would unravel completely, especially during the World Wars. He had held men in their last moments and he had felt the grip of despair and terror. But this was a whole new level of crisis. 

Who was he without Aziraphale? How had their existences become so entwined that he couldn't even fathom continuing on without the angel? The idea that he might never see that goofy, jolly smile light up his days. The thought that he'd never get to kiss him, really kiss him again...and explore this new twist in their relationship...

"Hey!" Copland yelled at him and pulled him from the shock. "I need you to put pressure on his chest wound. 

He nodded and clasped his hands together, pressing them on the wound.

"Harder."

"What?" 

"Press harder!"

He felt like throwing up, but did as he was told. The doc was hovering around the angel's leg, inspecting a large gash in his thigh. "He's lost a lot of blood. Do you know what type he is?" 

He sputtered, unable to come up with an answer. 

"That's okay, I'll find out fast," the near-stranger's hands worked in a blur. He tested Aziraphale's blood type and got an IV started. "Any chance you can...make some O+ blood appear? Without...taking it from someone who's alive of course..." he blanched. The doctor was smart, the differences between Crowley and this angel on the floor were markedly apparent. Crowley's wings were black, his eyes slivers of chipped gold, and when he'd yelled at the doctor...a part of his soul shriveled into a corner in recognition of...something dark.

Copland didn't want to find out what would happen if he failed to fix this...this...thing's friend. He was at a lost though, he wasn't a veterinarian and had no idea how to tend to wings. His sweat beaded face lifted from his work and looked at Crowley. "Do you know about wings? I mean, you have them, so you must. But...once I'm finished with the leg and I get to the chest, that will free you up to work on the wings. I'm afraid I don't know much of anything about wings and I'm certain that they've sustained some injury."

"Yeah, yeah I'll take care of the wings, just...work faster."

"I'm doing the best I can here. Twenty minutes ago I was in the breakroom at the hospital, twenty minutes ago, I was an atheist." 

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Now is not the time for a deep religious discussion." 

"Clearly." 

Awkward silence descended upon the pair. An unnatural plastic mask delivered oxygen to him, the sound whirring to fill the quiet. A monitor sat on the floor as well, beeping incessantly, and Crowley prayed...er...hoped that it would continue to do so. 

"You will return all of this to the hospital you took it from, right?" 

That was the wrong question to break the tension with, Copeland realized, when Crowley gave him a glare so sharp that it could have cut through steel. He gulped, throat dryly clicking against itself as he continued to work. 

The pair spent hours on the floor with Aziraphale, their hands and clothes soaked with blood. Crowley feared hurting Aziraphale, he worried about him waking up and screaming in agony as the doctor wrenched his thigh muscles back together. 

"You should take a break. Maybe get a drink of water," the doctor suggested. The demon had his hands buried in down-soft, snow white wings. There were feathers missing and broken, blood seeping into the softness. It wasn't until Copland's voice broke his concentration that he realized tears were streaming down his face onto the already wet down.

He took a shaky breath and stood on shakier legs. His head felt dizzy and strange and he wobbled down the hallway and towards the bathroom. His hand smacked at the wall and managed to hit the light. The tiny room was far too bright and his hands slipped as he grasped the porcelain sink. Daring to look up, he saw his own face reflected back at him. Dark circles hung under his eyes. Dried blood clung to his lips where he had kissed the angel, sweat slipped down his face and his hair matted to it. 

A sound filled the bathroom, a tearing agonizing sound that was foreign and wrenching. It was coming from Crowley's mouth. Sobs and struggles for breaths. He felt a crumbling in his chest as if he were being doused with holy water. The sobs kept coming and his body slipped downwards. Broken and in shock, he dragged himself to the nearest tiled wall and brought his knees up to his chest. 

Finally, he had fallen apart. 

Crowley had spent his entire existence avoiding the sweeping depths of emotion that he felt in this moment. This is the worst case scenario that kept him up at nights, this was the horror that led him to drink until reality itself slurred, this was the culmination of his every fear. It was something he had never dared speak aloud. Never had he told Aziraphale what truly twisted him into a pile of wreckage, and that was...what if...Aziraphale were to be extinguished somehow...and he left alive? 

He would walk into the nearest church himself and drink holy water. There could be no worse fate that going on without the angel that had graced his side for 6,000 years. 

His head hung in despair, he ought to have been elated, but the events brought him far too close to the fulfillment of his nightmares. Truth be told, deep down, he hated that he had fallen. He hated it because it meant that he would be apart from Aziraphale in the end, for eternity, and that was an unbearable thought. He wished to climb back up that ladder, but knew he couldn't. And he didn't want the angel to fall. He was, an angel, the being he had fallen in lov...

He stopped his thoughts with a gulp. 

The point was, he would sooner bathe in his own ashes before seeing Aziraphale, his angel, fall. 

Above him, the water ran. He didn't even recall turning on the faucet, but it ran. And ran. And he sat. And sat. And cried.


End file.
